


young deuteronomy

by minbar



Series: music to be murdered by [2]
Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Drug Abuse, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Violence, Writing Exercise, supervisor centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minbar/pseuds/minbar
Summary: requiem (and relapse)---a supervisor-centric fic and writing practice
Series: music to be murdered by [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113857
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	young deuteronomy

**Author's Note:**

> tw : blood, violence, throwing up, drug abuse mentions. nothing as serious as calypso
> 
> late night writing practice. the beginning monologue is from taxi driver, no credit to me.
> 
> that being said, i hope you enjoy.

all the animals come out at night - whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick,

venal.

suppose the supervisor was a hypocrite, call him a degenerate, even. why wouldn’t he be inclined to agree? heaven born of earth, each syringe in his arm hell, and rehab was his own tailored purgatory, teeter-totter on the edge of his faith.

whatever.

fire and brimstone isolated in his vision, brought alight from the flare of the silver lighter, oh so aloof and frigid in his patchy, calloused hand. tremors deep in the cyanosed, distant veins crawling down his arm and riddled in his fingers, pulsing every beat out of his skin like this migraine, driving him threadbare out of his stripped wits.

the supervisor’s teeth tickled against the rough filter of the cigarette, twitching between his pursued lips, ash and alcohol evident and intermingling in his heavy breath. the glasses around him glistened with hints of what they once held, enabled fully by the unknowing lights of the club. the numerous buds and fags burnt down to the filter scattering the glass table warped in the crystals of the shot glasses, some upright and tall still and others knocked down, lucky not to roll and fall into shatters, just as did the conversations of those lucky enough to be born blue-blooded and extraverted.

lowering his head, the bridge of his nose scrunched against his two fingers, plucking tightly at the roman bridge of his nose, a viable threat to the thinner frames perched onto his nose, brought to solace only by the comfort that they were more practical on his nude, aging eyes compared to the glasses of the many fledgling employees.

every employee believed it, under an impression they were all-knowing, omnipotent where they couldn’t soundly reject the offers the ARC brought. in comparison to their UAC brethren, the odds were in their favour that perhaps this was eden.

after all, who else to bring such a tainted, raw man as the supervisor, defenseless and easily tanned to yellow bone near his hospital room window, defenestration so easy and justifiable for him but dr. samuel hayden?

the cynical chuckle challenged the cigarette, comfortable in his mouth.

his back shuddered and whined with a pop, a persistent reminder of his age overlooking and constant.

unwelcome, to say the least.

“rough day, huh?”

curious, the supervisor leered at the questioning woman, driving the glasses down the shaved glass table into her arms. she was of a more recent age, a modern woman of her times, whatnot with a white, tightly-knit shirt soaking in the suffocating neon of the night and the dark blue skirt all too familiar in shade to his worn turtleneck.

“yes, you could say,”

light and airy was the laugh that chimed from her lungs.

“want me to call a cab for you?”

the supervisor's eyes stopped at the wall, pregnant pause and ponder. He tapped his temple with his ring finger, unweighted by the metal bands common of those his age, the final goodbye letter to a youth of promiscuity and spontaneous bliss to domestic affairs and repainted, crooked white fences.

“that won’t be necessary. thank you, though,”

a blue card was placed down in front of him, the silver letters and numerals inscribed into the reflective material glared down upon by the ceiling.

“enjoy the rest of your night, sir!”

forcing himself off the temporary comforts of the cushion-lined booths, the side of his mouth quirked up, stretching his sharp cupid’s bow below his nose.

“you as well,”

=

as off the hinges as the door, the supervisor stumbled out of the establishment. blaring music, seemingly screaming at him for his prior sins and sacrilege from beyond urdak fading into the ambience of hiding crickets and the tapping, pin-point pattering of the windy rain.

lying on the brick wall, soft from the moisture lingering in the air, a hand canopied over his mouth, cloudy spittle prominent on the dried corners of his lips - wracking his throat and almost expunging the contents of his empty, raw stomach and a hiccup building up from his chest cavity, threatening to spill with that acidic liquid; absinthian and stinging.

careful, maybe the supervisor won’t asphyxiate on his habits.

posture hunched, the supervisor pulled his palm away from his mouth, warm and fogged from his breath. awkwardly sliding them into his coat pockets, he found an unsteady rhythm in his gait as he strolled away with the music of the night drifting behind him.

the supervisor realized in a daze the tenderness of his mind, the shadows in the corners of his vision enduring and tiresome, even when the streetlights flickered on, the light telling of prayers unheard.

a dull creak pierced the air and the supervisor stopped, caught between the caressing, gentle amber of the lights and the uncertain, quiet dark of the alleyways adjacent in alcoves of the buildings.

a lamp flashed dark, and the supervisor fell into the alley, the scattering of his glasses on the pavement distant in his ears, taken up by the blood rushing to his head, the thumping of his ribcage and the sharp  _ bang  _ of the metal pipe on the brick wall. 

the left side of his face was warm, a feeling so queer. Hands balled up into fists supporting the weight of his body, the supervisor glared up to see a short, stocky man bent over at the entrance and exit of the alley, breaths shallow in succession and his chest quivering. his stained, tattered clothes like the rusted pipe in hand, shiny hair stuck together under a brown beanie. the man collapsed onto the floor, the drops above merciless in claiming his body.

“leave, right now! get the fuck out!” he cried.

stepping over his body, the supervisor didn’t look back, glaring down at his shattered glasses laying useless in his creased palm and tucked under his swollen, bruised thumb, pooling in warmth from the impact of the blunt force to mirror the left side of his face.

he stopped.

the supervisor placed the glasses back into his pocket, lifting his fingers up to his left eye and sliding it down his face. A steady stream of crimson clumped between his eyelashes, streaming down his face, the flow tucked into his cheekbone, dropping down his chin to dot against the blue turtleneck and splatter in shards, all over the pavement.

was blood thicker than water? a mix would help with the confusion chronic in his mind, surely.

on what floor are they waiting for him?

**Author's Note:**

> "who the fuck asked for a supervisor centric fic" i did and i delivered 
> 
> i have a tumblr now at https://minbaraph.tumblr.com/, i have an ask box open so you can either ask me questions about writing inspiration or lecture me on how making intern kill somebody is a solid hate crime in 58 countries


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